Chicanery
by Aliathe
Summary: Mists are meant to deceive and lie . . . who shall be the first to die? [four-shot] [fem!fran] [dead!fic]
1. Daffodil

_**Summary:**_

_A persuasive whisperer, a siren weaving dangerous threads, ensnares first the prince, then the king, then even the royal court magician, trapping them in her doomed web of silken promises and poisonous beauty. And then they begin to fall, to rot, to tumble into a despairing oblivion... who is she really doing this for? A Mist deceives and cloaks their true intentions, after all. Siel26, B26, 6926, and 10026._

**_Disclaimers_****_:_**

_I don't own KHR!, and the cover picture isn't mine, either._

* * *

They first met at a party.

It was a grand affair, garnished in gold and dripping diamonds and _oozing _arrogance.

The Kingdom of Verns was hosting it in their Royal Castle, and had invited royalty and high-up nobility.

Nothing but the best for the mysterious heirs' first public appearance, after all.

Yes, _heirs_', as in plural.

Rumor had it that they were identical twins, which a fierce hatred between them, and that the eldest was favored for king.

Both, of course, were also rumored to be complete megalomaniac psychopaths.

(Other extremely popular rumors that were circulating the countries of Aifam-Atremo included: the famed swordsman of the proud Squalo Clan had finally pledged an allegiance oath, and to the disgraced but fearsome Xanxus, adopted son of Timoteo Vongola, no less.

Princesses Kyoko and Haru were also repeatedly spotted being rather _buddy-buddy_ with each, other, if you catch my drift.

There were also some very interesting theories cooked up about Prince Tsunayoshi of the Sawada Clan and heir to the Vongola throne, most of which speculated wildly on his scandalous relationship with Prince Enma of the Kozato Clan and heir to the Simon throne.)

That was only to be expected, however; it was well known that the strains of madness oft intertwined themselves into the lives of the Verns' Royal Family.

Of the previous generations, nearly all of them had died young in battle, been murdered, suicided while out of their right minds, or passed away in a tragically brutal freak incident.

The rest all kicked the bucket when they were old and decrepit and paranoid, slowly wasting to bone and flesh and skeletal remains, with their own brains turning against them until they no longer remembered their own name, and easily mistook enemies for allies and friends for foes.

When finally dead, any Verns royalty was always cremated and then thrown into the sea, leaving the ocean tides to pull apart the ashes and scatter them across the four corners of the earth, cleansing their earthly vessels from what sins could be purified.

And goodness knows that the Verns had an abundance of sins.

But Rasiel wasn't thinking too much about the Verns' dark history at the moment.

He was too busy enjoying the party, soaking up the noise and laughter and people and lovely, lovely _attention._

Finally 18, and finally old enough to be crowned King in front of the adoring (and secretly despising) masses that were his future subjects, it was indeed a good day for him.

Being able to achieve the ultimate victory over _Belphegor _would certainly give a sense of satisfaction.

Oh? But what's this?

Something else that was rather lovely.

So he goes over to the pretty tealette maiden standing in the corner, her eyes demurely shaded with all the signs of proper nobility...

…and they talk...

…and they laugh...

…and they smile...

…and they dance the night away, as whimsical and naive and foolish and fairy-tale fantasy-like as it sounds and seems, with rose-tinted lens draping over them….

...as the party goes on...

...and the drinks keep coming...

...and the mouths start babbling without stop, loosened by the pleasant buzz of the alcohol and the general optimism of the atmosphere, surrounded by opulence and luxury and lavishness.

It was also a good night for him.

When she bids farewell to journey back to her kingdom, the girl gives her name and a promise, cradling the sides of his face with pale, slender fingers, and staring deep into exactly where his eyes were hidden, eerily accurate through lowered lashes.

"You _will_ be king, and I look forward to that day. Remember Frances, won't you? I'll remember you; we'll meet again. Goodbye for now, King Rasiel."

It's sealed with a kiss, that sears like fire and lingers warmly even when she's long gone.

There was just _something_, something about her, something that sparks interest and giddiness and _want_, unmuted by the traces of unease and suspicion stirring in the back of his head.

/Every king needs a queen. I'll make _you_ my queen./

(He doesn't notice the complete lack of true passion in her words or her kiss; Fran's a trickster, an actress, and one of the best. Nothing else would do for a 'top magician', who puts on a show and delights in fooling the 'audience', even the other actors.

Because life's a play

the world's a stage

we are but puppets

guided around in our cage

and who is the playwright

so clever, so wise

as to be able to manipulate us

using nothing but lies?)

(Nor, notably, did he notice the violet shimmering that appeared where the girl had once stood, which glimmered brightly for a split second and then faded into nothingness. If he had, perhaps he would've noticed that his attraction to her was more than could plausibly be expected from a first meeting.)

* * *

They get married in a year, with a whirlwind courtship set up only to fuel the rumor-mills.

Fran, as she preferred to be called, wears 4 layers of pure white, artfully arranged into a gown, and smiles vacuously at the people gathered in the Royal Gardens to attend their marital ceremony, her dulled eyes veiled with delicate lacework and spun silver threads.

Rasiel, a crown perched in his hair and fresh from his coronation day last week, wears a crisp dress shirt and a long black cloak, with a thick white fur 'collar'; he grins at his bride, too blinded with infatuation to realize how utterly _bored_ she looks from under the veil.

"You may kiss the bride," the hired priest, masked and berobed, intoned solemnly with a graveness more suited for funerals than marriages, his voice level and steady and neutral.

Leaning in, the veil is lifted, and they kiss among the background sounds of cheering.

"I love you," Rasiel whispers, his gaze possessive and keen.

Still smiling that empty smile, Fran answers with another kiss, clutching a single daffodil as her bouquet.

("Why a daffodil?" he asks.

"They match your hair, and they mean respect and regard,"she answers.

Satisfied, he leaves the planning room.

A silence.

"They also mean deceit," she murmurs softly into the petals.

The flowers don't respond.

They weren't expected to.)

Off in the corner, a near mirror image of the groom snickers to himself, elegantly twirling a knife balanced on his fingertip.

'Things are being set into motion,' he thinks. 'Soon, soon, soon...'

Lurking in the crowd, a tall man bearing a trident and the mark of a Royal Mage chuckles under his breath, mismatched irises lighting up in unison with mirthful glee.

'That was maneuvered quite cunningly,' he thinks. 'Soon, soon, soon...'

Forgotten, the priest smirks under his mask and clutches a winged ring hanging from his neck, eagerly anticipating a report.

'**He'll** be happy to hear of this,' he thinks. 'Soon, soon, soon...'

(Those three [and Fran] are the only ones who realize the significance of Fran never replying back with an 'I love you too'.

And if everything goes as planned, two of those three will soon _die_ because of that realization.)

* * *

Rasiel, Fran decides, is a childish, selfish, _petty puny_ _**pathetic**_ person.

But he's also _powerful_, and gullible if you know how.

Which makes him for perfect for **their** plans.

Who could make a better _pawn_?

So she complies to his every need, every want, every desire and wish, with the patience and indulgence of a saint, all while quietly holding sway and most of the actual political power behind-the-scenes.

/How rich of a joke. I'm definitely no saint, and neither is **he**. Together, we'd be better off as a pair of conspiring demons, plotting devilry to unleash./

The thought amuses her, and she laughs quietly.

"What's so funny, my queen?"

Stirred by her laughter, a sleepy Rasiel peers up at her, disheveled hair sticking up oddly.

Fran patted him reassuringly, a blank smile plastered automatically over her face, real enough to convince him and anyone else who didn't know of **their** plans.

"Just a humorous rumor I remembered one of the ladies-in-waiting mentioning, my king," she says smoothly, without a single hesitation, the words sliding slickly off of her tongue like oil on water.

"Apparently the Grandmaster Fighter Fon, of the Arcobaleno Guild, recently revealed that he was Prince Kyoya's relation. An uncle of some sort. It's quite hard to imagine, what with the contrasting personalities and all. Prince Kyoya of the Hibari Clan and heir to the Namimori throne? The first word you think of is 'bloodthirsty'. Whereas Arcobaleno Fon is reknown for his serenity and preference for passive antagonism over direct conflict."

(It was all true, too, so she couldn't really be accused of lying.

There really _was_ a rumor, and one of the ladies-in-waiting actually _had_ said it.

But it wasn't what she'd been thinking about.

Then again, when did she ever say that it _had_ been what she was thinking about?)

At any rate, Rasiel bought the excuse, and shuffled his pillow slightly as he gestured with his arms.

Taking the cue, Fran slipped back under the fluffy covers and soft cotton sheets, laying down from her previous sitting position.

"Mine," he breathed into her ear, that touch of madness leaking into his voice.

She kept smiling blankly.

"Yours," she agrees, yielding easily to his embrace.

Under the moonlight shining through the thin window-drapes, teal hair mingles with blond as bare skin meet, their bodies fitting snugly together like puzzle pieces clicking.

(While she may have yielded, that didn't mean that she reciprocated.

Indeed, her arms lay limp against her sides, even while stronger masculine arms wrapped tightly, clingy, around her.)

* * *

When she wakes up one day to find her lover dead in bed, she is cool and composed.

After clinically checking for the nonexistent pulse, a robe is thrown on and she hurries to call for the Royal Doctor, looking appropriately shocked and haphazardly dressed when he arrives.

"A slow death, by gradual blood poisoning from ingested substances. Witchcraft at work, as well. There is magical residue in his organs, causing a rapid shut-down as soon as enough of the substance had collected and sunk in," the doctor announces.

He glances, concerned, at the ghostly pale and silent queen.

"Are you alright, Your Majesty? This must be quite a shock for you. I've already rung for a hot bowl of herbal soup; the maids should be here any second."

"I-It's fine," she stammers in reply, quite faintly. "I… I'd just like to have the funeral as soon as possible, and to of course catch the culprit by any means possible."

She appears sincere and honest, the very picture of a recently widowed wife of only a year.

Thus, no suspicions were cast on Queen Frances, and King Rasiel's funeral was held within a week.

Prince Belphegor ascended to the throne amid theories of sabotage; the twins' hatred between them was the stuff of legends.

Still, that didn't stop him from being the next king, and he even graciously allowed the queen to keep her position, for reasons unknown to the public.

* * *

It's dusk on the horizon line as she looks out across the ocean.

A golden urn, finely carved, is raised and then emptied into the raging tides, disappearing from the naked eye as soon as they hit the white seafoam.

She stands there for a moment, standing alone on the edge of a cliff, her arms hefting up an empty vase.

Then one hand reaches into her hair and draws out a small, tightly sealed and airtight pouch, which is dropped into the vase.

"My princess," a voice calls from behind her.

Fran turns to meet Belphegor's face, her eyes unreadable and a strangely bland smile on her face.

"My prince," she defers amiably, nudging the vase off the precipice to be broken on the jagged rocks jutting above the sealine.

They link arms and stride away, whispering sweet nothings and laughing delightedly at their success.

/Queen's good and all, but the ones you hear the most about are always the princesses. One step completed, one step closer, one step closer to **our** plan and **you**./

(Inside the pouch, now bobbing aimlessly amid the saltwater, are flakes of an untraceable poison, laced with a fading violet glow, that if ingested for…. say…. a year, will result in organ failure and a swift, silent death.

And if anyone ever thought to cross-examine it to the poison that caused the mystery of King Rasiel's passing, there would be no more mystery about it.)

* * *

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_**~Please Review.~**_

_**-Sorry for any OOC-ness, but I'm trying to invoke that 'dark fantasy' vibe. Did it work?**_

_**-Also, this is kinda a way for me to cure my writer's block on 'Replacement'. My apologies if anyone's frustrated with the slower than usual updates for that, but hey, it's gotten to a difficult plot point, and daily updates are kinda unreasonable now that track and field has started.**_


	2. Ending, Summarization, Etc

**Attention:**

**This is a dead!fic.**

_Yeah, we all pretty much know that this isn't going to be updated again. So, I'll just give you a [long] summary of what I'd planned, many months ago:_

_._

_._

_First, the snippet of my forever doomed-to-be-unfinished second chapter:_

_._

_._

They first met at the same party where she would later meet Rasiel.

Belphegor had been sulking, though would vehemently deny it if questioned.

Because he was not jealous that Rasiel was getting most of the spotlight as usual, he was not furious that Rasiel was the shoe-in for king, he was not itching to carve up Rasiel in beautiful ribbons of crimson and silver and bloodbloodblood, in finery unmatched by any mortal-made material and of which Rasiel was undeserving.

(But isn't he so nice? He was easily willing to bedeck Rasiel in bloody art nonetheless. Undeserving? Like he was declared undeserving to be KING?)

So he drifted across the ballroom, accepting congratulations and greetings with polite smiles that, even if they were a little too tight and restrained and fake…

...Well, he was still a prince, still royalty though not the one to be king, which meant everyone still knew not to comment on it or provoke him in any way.

/Tch. Peasants.

… But isn't that strange?

Royalty and peasants and all those in between… their blood was no different from each other.

They were all the same shade of lovely, lovely scarlet life, the life that ran through the veins of every living creature.../

And when a tealette girl around his age approaches him with a rather interesting offer…

Can you really blame him for listening?

They're by themselves in the hallway, cornered.

(But who cornered who?

He doesn't like to think about the answer to that, not when the walls are closing in and her eyes are piercing straight at him with unnerving clarity and something is wrongwrongwrong and then it's over and it's all rightrightright and he just knows that he can trust her.

[He shouldn't have.])

He's given an offer, an once in a lifetime chance that could either be his making or be his downfall.

"Do you wish to be king, Prince Belphegor? Then have patience, and cooperate with me. I'm Frances; remember that name well. In less than two years, Rasiel will be disposed of, with you sitting neatly atop the throne as next-in-line. So I propose a… mutual alliance, shall we say. Don't you want to see your brother ultimately defeated? To taste the sweetness of the final victory that you have triumphed over him? Think about it; I'll be waiting. But don't think too long, or the moment will have passed and the opportunity gone for good."

It's sealed with a kiss, that sears like fire and lingers warmly even when she's long gone.

There was just something, something about her, something that sparks interest and giddiness and want, unmuted by the traces of unease and suspicion stirring in the back of his head.

/Every prince needs a princess. I'll make you my princess./

_._

_._

_Now the actual summary:_

_._

_._

After a flashback scene, it's revealed that Fran met Belphegor at the same party she met Rasiel, just earlier. She promises to help him become king and kill his brother, which she accomplishes through her plan to enthrall and poison Rasiel. Cut-back to her second wedding day to Belphegor, a few weeks after Rasiel's death, and brief mention of the kingdom's tradition of a brother taking on a deceased one's wife. There are rumors in the palace that Prince Belphegor had a hand in his brother's death, who he infamously hated and feuded with, and the gossipers think he did it out of lust for the dead king's queen. Fran passes by, unnoticed, and smirks to herself after hearing that.

"Something funny, froggy?" Belphegor asks her at the altar, before the ceremony, 'froggy' being mostly affectionate nickname that referred ironically to the story of the Frog Prince. "Oh, just rumors," she replies. The priest is the same, and the Royal Mage makes an appearance in the wedding crowd. A suitably vague and ominous message is thought of.

Some filler depicting their married life. Belphegor and Fran play each day and each night like a game, a dance, with him wary but madly obsessed. Emphasis on madly.

("He knew that if she had killed one king before, there was nothing really stopping her from killing another, and accordingly kept her at a slight arm's length. But_ she_ knew exactly how much the prospect of death, and cheating it, thrilled him. She drew him closer with each threat, each submission, reeling him in like an arsenic-addicted fish. Every drop of drink and bite of food was scrutinously checked for unsavory substances, because Belphegor, in the end, was no fool. No, in the end, he was just a madman carving bloody markings into his bride, even as she strangled and struggled right back. Their's was an understanding of violence- and the passion found within it.")

Flashback scene-snippet reveals that Fran purposely 'bumped into' Belphegor before meeting Rasiel, and shows she manipulated him the same way she manipulated Rasiel, and never held any real loyalty to him, neither. She also used her 'witchcraft/magic/Mist Flames' to 'bewitch' him, though more subtly than Rasiel's outright infatuation. Instead of such a noticeable change, which Belphegor would've been far more suspicious of than Rasiel, Fran just accelerated his own 'Verns Madness', making him more pliable to her manipulations. The mysterious 'he' she truly loves is mentioned in her thoughts, and it cut-backs to her standing on the same cliff with Belphegor, on the second anniversary of Rasiel's death. They're there for a picnic, and Fran mentally remarks on how he was relaxing his guard; he only gave the food and drink a cursory examination, because he was so distracted by the gloating humor of picnicking over the grave of his dead brother, with his dead brother's wife now his own.

Fran suggests, unsmiling, that he take the joke a step further, and literally step further onto the cliff, closer to the real grave of Rasiel. Belphegor thinks it's a brilliantly funny idea, and agrees, after making a remark on how she should smile more, since she has all of these amusing thoughts. She follows him, and they stand on the cliff, with him a little closer to the edge. "Hey," she says, peering over the edge as if startled. "Isn't that his vase still there?" Belphegor, frowning and suddenly deeply _unamused_, peers over as well. "Where-" he manages to ask, before being cut off. Fran hits him with a bolt of magic to ensure he's too dazed to struggle, then steps up, and with a neat, quick push, shoves him off the cliff. She watches him fall and be impaled on the jagged rocks, before the raging tide pulls his body off in ragged piece.

When the last piece sinks below, Fran smiles, and comments to herself, "Now you're _really_ over his grave- and soon to be _in_ it. Pity you can't see me smile, right?" Then she efficiently gathers up the picnic supplies, packs them away, and takes a moment to compose a shellshocked facade, before walking back to the castle to announce the truly tragic news of King Belphegor's fatal slip into the sea, when he was making a jest about his brother's lack of a gravestone and unfortunately leaned too far. The citizens sympathize with her 'loss.' She takes a week to mourn, and then makes a public announcement wearing the appropriate mourning clothes and an appropriately shaky-but-brave face.

She declares the Royal Mage, Mukuro of the Six Paths, the next ruler of the kingdom, as there are no more prospects of Verns blood. The citizens celebrate, approving it as a radical but right step towards modernizing the caste-ruled Kingdom of Verns, as Mukuro, and his apprentice, Nagi Chrome, are widely known to have been born as commoners. Mukuro ascends the steps to the stage, kisses her gloved hand, and smiles at the crowd. He smoothly pledges to do right by their trust. Nagi nervously lingers offstage. Fran smiles pleasantly at him and makes offhand, joking remarks about not giving up her throne entirely just yet; the crowd laughs agreeably. Mukuro smiles back at her, assures the crowd that of course he would never forget who gave him the opportunity in the first place. Neither of their smiles reach their eyes.

Flashback scene reveals that Mukuro's 'assurance' was actually a reference, reminder, and implicit threat to Fran, because it turns out that he was the one who taught her to refine her magic, years ago when they were both tweens. Cut-back to a few months after the ruling hand-off, and Fran acknowledges mentally that he is far more experienced, powerful, and skilled than she is in magecraft, which is the technical term for what they did. Furthermore, she acknowledges mentally that he knows _she_ knows that.

Flashback scene: He visits her a few times after becoming the Verns Regent, and makes several more implicit threats to her about his awareness of her guilt and methods in murdering the past two rulers. He warns her that he won't fall for any of that.

"The student will never surpass the master," he says with an unfeeling smile, "and even so, a dog who bites the hand that fed it _will_ be put down quite quickly. Don't you agree?" Fran doesn't drink the tea he offers, and just stares blankly at him, reactionless. Mukuro sighs with mock hurt at her lack of trust, shrugs uncaringly, and leans back in his chair with his cup raised, which Nagi scurries out of the shadows to hurry to fill. "Still, I suppose I may have taught you a little _too_ well, brat. A king-maker and a king-killer? My, my, my, how ambitious you've grown. Well, we'll see how ambitious you can get when you're locked in your chambers with an unfortunate wasting illness. If you manage a miraculous recovery...? We'll see how supportive the public will be _of_ your ambitions when they're told of your past exploits and current deceit of your magecraft."

Fran is still reactionless. "Are you done monologuing?" she asks 'politely,' then flicks her blank gaze from him to Nagi, who squeaks with distress and shrinks backward. Mukuro's mirth abruptly dissipates, and he sets down his cup gently, glaring coldly at Fran. "Brat, don't play your mind games with my Nagi. You're forgetting who gave you all of your little tricks. No magecraft will harm me nor mine, so don't you even _start_. I've cut my heart out _years_ ago. You're six _lives_ too young to be trying to best me, brat." Fran rolls her eyes and looks away, like the sulky child he remembers her as and expects her to be. She drinks her tea, and smirks into it. 'I've found his heart,' she thought, and pretends to be bored as she watches Nagi shakily apologize to a soft-eyed Mukuro.

Cut-back to the present, where she's sprawled, truly bored, on the lavish bed of her ornate chambers. A knock on the only door that led to the outside corridors comes, and she calls, "Enter!" with an expectant air. Nagi unlocks the magic-trapped door and tentatively pokes her head it, squeaking when she met Fran's eyes. The timid mage ducks her head down quickly, wheels in the cart containing Fran's (surprisingly not-poisoned) breakfast, and swiftly leaves, apologizing nervously as she locked the door behind her. Fran idly considers that Mukuro has gotten soft over the years because he hasn't attempted to 'silence' her even once yet, and quickly focuses back on the implications of such a thing as she samples the breakfast offerings.

Nagi was Mukuro's heart, his living and breathing anchor for his conscience. Perhaps she had been human before, but the effects of such a ritual transfer had definitely left her as something more closely bonded to Mukuro. Fran thinks, 'Either way, he still made the worst decision of his life by letting his heart come in such close, constant contact with me. Or was his worst decision of his life choosing to take _me_ on as a pupil?' The thought amuses her, and she sits and eats her very delicious breakfast as she plots.

She basically turns out to slowly possess Nagi. The reason 'no magecraft will harm me nor mine' is because Nagi and Mukuro have a sympathetic bond, so not only does something interpreted as an attack not work, it would also alert the other. Only Nagi can hurt herself, or hurt Mukuro, and vice versa. Nagi isn't aware of Fran's possession, so she doesn't 'recognize' it as an attack, which she needs to do in order for the magical protection to let her 'reject' the attack. A possessed Nagi slits Mukuro's throat one unsuspecting day, and Fran forces her to hide his body, drag it out of the castle onto the same cliff, throw it into the ocean, and then jump off herself. Nagi is crying as she complies, and feels only relief as she suicides to reconcile with her 'soul,' Mukuro.

Fran emerges from her chambers a few days later, when the shocking murder of the Regent by his trusted apprentice is revealed, and the other shocking news appears that apparently the Regent locked away the queen to seize more power. She is sorrowful as she reveals these news, choking up with tears- tears of inner laughter and vengeful mirth. "Do not blame Nagi Chrome for the murder of her master," she insists earnestly. "Instead, praise her for doing what she had to to release me from my prison. She was such a good girl; I thank her for her duty, and grieve that the guilt of killing her benefactor was harsh enough to induce her to kill herself." The crowd cheers.

That night, she meets with the priest on the cliff, Torikabuto, and tells him that everything is ready. "He is overjoyed with you, Queen," Torikabuto replies, and leaves. Fran looks across the sea's horizon, ignoring the deadly waves and rocks below that had seen so much betrayal, and smiles with soft eyes. "I entirely hope so," she murmurs to herself.

A few months later, the royal navy of a kingdom across the sea, The Thousand Flower Kingdom, along with their king, Byakuran Gesso, arrives for diplomatic meetings regarding an alliance. Another month later, Fran and Byakuran are engaged for a political marriage and merging of their kingdoms, though the citizens celebrate and note how truly happy they seem with each other. The citizens hope for a finally happy ending for their by-now beloved and tragically-suffering queen.

Flashback scene reveals Fran met Byakuran the earliest in another kingdom, when they were still children, and they became fast friends who delighted in mischief and messing with the townsfolk. They decide to become powerful in their own rights when they grow up, and promise to marry, soon devising plans to take over their kingdom by usurping the current rulers, who weren't very well liked. Byakuran then had to move to The Thousand Flower Kingdom, but they agreed to continue correspondence and build up power bases. Fran ends up moving to the Kingdom of Verns to convince Mukuro to teach her magecraft, and subsequently furthers her ambitions by using and discarding Rasiel, Belphegor, and Mukuro (and Nagi). Byakuran still sends messages through Torikabuto, his mage stationed in Verns to support Fran, and is revealed to have done much the same as she did in order to get the throne, except with the women, as The Thousand Flower Kingdom was a matriarchy in contrast to the patriarchal Kingdom of Verns.

Cut-back to the wedding. Torikabuto is the priest again, and the Funeral Wreaths are seen in the crowd as Byakuran's escorts. People mentioned in the 'rumors' of the first chapters, such as the Enma-Tsunayoshi and Kyoko-Haru couples, are also seen cheering in the crowd. "I love you," Byakuran says, lifting her veil and smiling. "I love you too," Fran finally answers, smiling and leaning in.

Fast-forward to them sitting on the cliff at night, letting their legs dangle off, arms around each other. Fran's magic is shaping barriers around them as a precaution against them falling off. "To the future!" Fran calls, raising a glass of champagne. "To the future!" Byakuran returns the sentiment with a warm smile, and they clink glasses.

The End.

***Alternate Ending:

Byakuran then hits Fran with a blast of his own magic (sky flames, orange magecraft, etc.) to daze her like she did to Belphegor, and to shatter her cautionary barriers. He nudges her off, still smiling warmly, and it's the last thing she sees with widened eyes before following the route of her past victims and crashing onto the deadly rocks. The deadly waves and rocks below that had seen so much betrayal, see another one. Byakuran raises his glass again to the empty air, and repeats, musingly, "to the future..." He chuckles to himself, and drinks, then gets up and walks casually back to the castle.


End file.
